


Lance’s Week of Wonders

by eccentrick



Series: The Wondrous Life of Lance [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, Heith content, Humor, Insecure Lance (Voltron), Lance (Voltron)-centric, Lance charms the generals, Lotor isn't an evil creep in this, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Pre-Relationship, Trans Female Pidge | Katie Holt, mentions of suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 01:32:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12288396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eccentrick/pseuds/eccentrick
Summary: It was supposed to be a safe and easy mission. Famous last words, huh?Wherein Lance gets double kidnapped by the Generals and realizes they might not be too bad.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I can explain. This was supposed to be implied Klance, but my writing went into a whole different direction(aka Heith.) Lancelot wasn't in the series plans either, but it's my guilty pleasure ship. I also just really love Lance and Lotor, so why not combine that love? 
> 
> I'd like to thank my creative support group. You guys are much to busy to read the shenanigans, but just the encouragement every time I passed a word count milestone was enough. 
> 
> This is already complete so the updates will most likely be consistent unless I do some major editing. 
> 
> Unbeta'ed, so all mistakes are my own.

It's strange. Lance isn't even talking about any specific thing, noun, nor universe. Just the word: _strange_. 

It's strange that the Blue Lion chose him, it's strange that he's a Paladin of Voltron, it's strange that the Red Lion chose him over Allura, and it's even stranger that Lance didn't see his sexuality crisis coming. 

On top of all of that, it's entirely strange and ironic that Lance is the one that gets captured. 

Because really, if the Galra want any real and potentially harmful information, they should've snatched Hunk, or high tech Pidge. If they really got lucky, Keith, in all his Black Lion Paladin glory. Though Lance has an inkling that Keith would never sell them out, even under torture. He's cool like that. 

But nope, they got lil ‘ol Lancey Lance, spare tire of Voltron and completely useless as a hostage. Imagine that.

It's been exactly three vargas since he woke up, head pounding and mouth full of cotton, and Lance has seen neither hide nor fursona of any Galra. From what snippets he's learned about Shiro's time with the Empire, he's not sure that this time lapse is a good thing or not. 

_Probably not._

Lance tries not to dwell, but dwelling is about all a person can do when they're stuck on an evil alien spaceship with nothing to hold your interest. So, after taking inventory of any injuries (bruised ribs, scraps, a swollen ankle, and three broken fingers) and observing his very boring and very purple surroundings, Lance is bored. 

He's forgotten how much, well, _any injury ever_ , hurts, when he's used to having the healing pods on call. Every inhale causes him to wince, and now he can't even tap his fingers to any rhythm because those things are ruined too. 

He is so _bored._

And he really needs something to distract him from this pain and fear. Honestly, that's all he asks. 

And then a distraction makes itself known.

☆☆☆

“How could we lose _Lance_ of all people! He never shuts up over the comms, and he always lets us know his location! _Somebody lost Lance_.” 

Hunk is so not happy about this. 

“Hunk, calm down,” says Allura, blue light casting a ghastly glow upon her dark skin.

“DON'T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN, WE LOST LANCE! LANCE! LANCE, BUDDY! PLEASE LET THIS ALL BE A STUPID PRANK. Oh. . .I'm feeling, kinda really sick now. . .” 

“Hunk, buddy, calm down.” It's Keith this time. Hunk thinks it's pretty rich coming from a guy who goes 0 to 100 in 0.6 seconds. He knows. He's calculated it. “You're going to work yourself into a panic attack. And that'll slow us down when we're trying to find Lance. “ 

“I’ll show you a panic attack,” he whispers under his breath scornfully. 

“Listen big guy, we all want to find Lance. But we can't panic. He probably wandered off somewhere the comms quit working,” the Green Paladin doesn't sound too optimistic despite it all. “So try to chill. Who else will help me make something that can find the idiot?” Pidge quips, flexing her tiny hands around her shifts. Green light glints off her glasses, but it does nothing to conceal her worry.

Hunk is appeased by this, and forces himself to take deep, shaking breaths. They'll find him. They have to.

☆☆☆

Lance is going to die. This is it. Sayonara, hasta la vista, rest in pieces Lance McClain. 

The Galra walks slowly, steps measured and calculated, like the stride of a cat, one of which sits on the shoulder of the soldier. She (at least Lance assumes it's a she, though he's walking a thin line, especially after Pidge) seems to be in no hurry, which makes this whole scenario all the more creepy. 

She says nothing, not even when she brushes her long fingers on Lance’s shoulder, before they make their way up to the back of his skull. At first he's frozen in fear, and the next tick he's frozen from something else. Something unnatural. 

He'll go with her. He'll go with her and feel safe, and needed, and every other emotional validation he craves, needs. He’ll find a way to be needed, valuable. 

A tide of warmth envelopes him, and his muscles turn to jelly. The door to his cell opens, and he walks through, knowing where he has to go. 

Freedom. Total freedom. No more pressure, no more deadly missions for Voltron, no more-- no more Hunk, Coran, Pidge, Shiro, Allura, Kei-

He jolts, his thoughts jarring him. Now the feelings he has been experiencing seem plastic, an imitation of what his emotions should feel like. His steps halt, and not soon after pointy fingernails grip the base of his neck. 

The Galran General stands still, stiffly so, to the point that despite her quietness, he assumes she's shocked. Intrusive thoughts are pushed into his mind tenfold, the sensation of blurry contentment fogging up his mind. But now that he knows it's not his, he fights through it, biting his tongue, and he comes out of it completely. 

Another soldier swings from the ceiling, where a gaping hole he hasn't noticed before opens up. It looks like she has a ponytail, but it doesn't look like hair. Her skin is multicolored, and reminds Lance of a chameleon. 

“Wow, this one's got some fight in him yet, doesn't he, Narti?” When the woman behind him doesn't reply, the colorful one continues as if she's answered. “I know, no one's really done that before, besides Prince Lotor.” 

At the name Lance panics. Who can blame him? He's apparently in the possession of Lotor’s generals, who do as he commands. And his stomach sinks even more, because now he knows what's going on. 

Lotor is having his generals break Lance out of furry prison. Break. Out. As in, _stealing_ him from their _own_ Empire's evil clutches. 

This is either bad, or really, really, _really_ quiznaking bad. 

What is Lance’s life? 

☆☆☆

They figure out a plan to find him not long after. At the signal, Hunk becomes boneless with relief. 

Pidge and Hunk scrapped something together that can detect Lance’s armor. There is a GPS implanted into every helmet, and every boot, since they've all gotten lost more than a few times. But since the atmosphere is what sent the signal so askew, they have to create something stronger to pick it up. 

“If only he stayed in his lion,” Allura grumbles, worry making her testy. “I would have easily been able to track him down that way.”

“Well, in Lance’s defense, the mission did require an emergency rescue, so.” 

Allura’s eyes soften, and she nods at Hunk. It is strange to see such a hardened expression on Allura’s face after so long; ever since she began piloting the Blue Lion, she's been. . .softer. Not weaker. The exact opposite, really. She’s become less of a boss, and more of a comrade. 

Each individual Paladin steers into a formation before landing. This particular moon is similar to Earth’s, and Hunk really regrets not noticing before. Now it feels almost cruel that Lance had to have been assigned to this mission. 

“The area is clear,” Shiro reassures through the Castle comm. “It should be safe enough to walk around. The distress signal came from two miles east of your location.” 

“I don't reckon any of you would mind getting me a sample of rock?” Coran adds absentmindedly,surely tinkering with something. From the distant tone in his voice, Hunk can bet he's worrying about Lance. The two have always been close. 

Keith, ever the Black Paladin, replies with a command. “Roger that. Hunk, search for Lance on foot. Pidge, do an aerial sweep. Allura, go with Hunk.”

“What. . .what’ll you be doing?” Hunk asks. 

There's a brief pause. All of them know in that moment that Keith is as nervous and worried as the rest of them. Whenever something happens, and especially without Lance here to calm him down, Keith reverts to a monosyllable version of Shiro. 

Keith says, “I'll be keeping watch,” and they all leave it at that. But Hunk figures Keith can just say he'll be searching aerial along with Pidge. But, you know, it's Keith. Hunk thinks there's still hope where with Shiro, there was none, so of course Keith isn't going to be frantic. 

Besides, they'll find Lance. There's no sign of foul play, and the only reason they sent Lance alone was because they were sure of the safety. Their manpower might be stretched. . .especially thin, but that is beside the point. 

And now Hunk’s mind is scrambling. 

The search begins. Allura carries the equipment in one arm, while Hunk hunches over the detector. The closer they get, the more annoying the beeping will be, the pitch higher and pace more frantic. A mile later, the deep beat ends with a high pitched scream that jolts both Allura and Hunk. 

They go in that direction as quickly as possible, Allura yelling into her helmet comm as they go. Hunk is too focused to hear the specifics, vision tunneled to the tracking device. 

All of a sudden the shrieking stops, and Hunk almost trips over something. Looking down, his heart sinks to his stomach, which threatens to revolt. 

Lance’s helmet. 

Nothing else. Lance’s blue helmet, with a tinge of blood. 

They won't be finding Lance today. 

☆☆☆

They're arrogant. Lance, for once in his life, doesn't flirt or engage in conversation (he has a lot of self-restraint, believe it or not). No, now he just watches, his survival instincts kicking in. 

They're arrogant because they don't blindfold him. His eyes are clear and attentive, taking in his surroundings. He doesn't see any obvious or easy exits, unless he wants to die quickly (he hopes it doesn't come to that) and the watchful eyes of the Generals never leave him. 

Even Narti, who's blind, always has her face directed at him, face a blank slate. 

“I'm so excited!” The slim, colorful one says. She stretches her arms out wide, placing her hands behind her head, elbows skyward. That's when he notices the skin flaps under her arms, like that of a flying squirrel. 

“Acxa is going to be so relieved! Prince Lotor’s been wanting to get his hands on one of them for awhile. That means she'll be careful with this one.” At that, she smiles down at Lance, a grin that edges towards sharp. 

It is a warning. 

He gulps, and makes a show about limping, sure the one leading him notices. When her expression turns gleeful, he knows he's succeeded. 

He's transported to a ship that resembles an Galra/Altean hybrid. It's more round edges than most Galra, but has the dark, eerie corridors similar to those of the Galra. Lance is sort of relieved; it looks a bit like the Castle-ship, which is something he welcomes. His thoughts are already clearer. 

Lance is surprised and confused when they pass what he supposes is the “dungeon” for lack of a better description. They don't even bother to bind his wrists, nor restrain him. 

So they're either dumber than assumed, or they are That Good. Good enough that they have complete confidence when it comes to holding him captive. The Paladin is hoping for the former, but he knows that it is by far a long shot. These women are very capable. 

These women are very scary. 

They flush out into what appears to be the deck of the ship. It is significantly smaller than the Castle-ship, and has a throne centered within it, surrounded by control panels and tech that he can't hope to begin to understand. If he were Pidge, he'd have no problem, but since he's just Lance, he’s screwed. 

The lanky one releases him. He doesn't stumble far before he comes across one of the other generals. 

_Oh crap, she's the head honcho, isn't she?_

Head Honcho Lady looks like she's swallowed a particularly sour lemon, lips set into a grimace. She has pretty indigo skin, her frown painted a few shades darker than her skin. Her demeanor immediately reminds him of Keith, which in turn makes him depressed, so he avoids it. In other words, she looks grumpy and awkward, and Lance knows she could snap him like twig between her forefingers. 

He really shouldn't feel the urge to flirt with her. But he's never had a lot of self-preservation. 

“Acxa! Lookie, lookie what I've got~.”

Oh. So, this is the person that'll quote, _be careful with this one._ “This one” being Lance. 

There's a crash, and a hulking figure comes out of the works at a surprising speed. Another general, the furry, angry one. The loose cannon, completely bloodthirsty. If any of the generals end up killing him, it'll be this one. 

“Is this the Paladin? He's so tiny. And injured. I could crush him with two fingers.”

“Zethrid,” Acxa says. The tone reminds Lance of a person telling their particularly aggressive dog to stay. Zethrid reacts like one too, muscles bunched together and ready to pounce at a moment's notice.

An inkling of true fear seeps its way into his consciousness. It's about time, really. This has been a fun mission for him until he realizes, _holy crow, he's not going to get out of this so easily._ The Paladins have been looking for Lotor for _months_ , and the Galran Prince’s personal team aren't about to stop evading now that they have Lance. Quite the opposite, he guesses. 

He will never be found. 

So that means he'll have to get himself out of this. 

_Quiznak._

☆☆☆

Team Voltron walk around in a daze in the hours after the discovery; or the lack thereof one. 

Shiro takes it especially hard. (They found evidence of Galra disruption). He becomes flighty and irritable, more so than usual. He's never been the same since the Black Lion found him, but now. . .now it's almost like he's an entirely different person. A hopeless, angry mess. 

Pidge retreats within herself, something she hasn't done since Shiro. Hunk knows that Lance has a special place in her heart, since he's someone she can always talk to about things she is too ashamed to tell even Shiro (“Lance and I are trash besties. I have so much dirt on him that he wouldn’t dare snitch,” Pidge always rationalizes). Lance readily accepts her. Now her sharp tongue and biting words mask the hurt. 

Hunk hasn't seen Allura since they came back to the castleship. Coran just sits next to the control system, eyes casted downwards, usual energy gone. 

Hunk, well. Hunk is just a mess. Not even baking can calm him down, and right now he feels listless. Lost.

So he does what any best friend would at a time like this. He's angry. 

Specifically at Keith. 

Keith who seems more worried about Shiro's meltdown than the reason behind it. Hunk is a compassionate guy, really, but he has no room for emotionless dark eyes, nor the passive behavior displayed by the Black Paladin. He knows that he's been close to Shiro for a long time, longer than any of the others (debates on _how_ close, if you catch his drift, but he shuts down the thought because the main instigator of the bet is. . .gone), and he was rightfully distraught at their leader’s disappearance. 

But what about Lance? Doesn't he deserve a similar response? 

Hunk resolves to find out one way or another. 

☆☆☆

The most surprising thing is that they give him food. Food other than green goo. Lance is in heaven, the rich smells drifting to his nose. The food is probably mediocre to the generals, but to the Red Paladin. . .it's magnificent. 

He's chowing down when Ezor comments, “Shouldn’t you be more cautious?” 

Lance chews, swallows, and hums. “I'd rather die eating than whatever your Prince is going to do to me.” 

He flinches when she draws closer, and surprisingly she backs off. Instead of walking closer, she does a handstand before balancing on her fingertips, parallel to Lance. She proceeds to do a sort of push up, and if this is intimidation, it's working. He cringes with discomfort and admiration at the sight. 

When she descends back onto her palms, she walks towards him, perfectly balanced on her hands. 

Her jubilant voice is slightly muffled as she asks, “What makes you think he'll do anything bad?” 

Lance forgets his meek prisoner skit to look at her with disbelief. 

“Um, have you seen his dad? Like, pure evilness, right there. Not to mention he literally had me kidnapped.”

Ezor is back on her feet once more, with no sign of fatigue. Getting out of here is going to be just about impossible, isn't it? 

“Ever thought about how one detail can change your whole perception of things? If I were you, I'd look at where we so called ‘kidnapped you’. In my perception, we rescued you.”

“If I asked to leave, would you let me?” Lance counters.

“Have you asked?”

“Okay. Can I leave?” 

Ezor giggles, wildly amused. “No.” 

“See? Kidnapped. Held against my will. Abducted. Whatever you wanna call it, it happened. Is still happening.”

“With my perspective, we’re keeping you out of harm’s way. Without letting you bring harm to us.”

Lance groans. He has a suspicion he could go on for hours speaking nonsense with this general. It is reminiscent of Coran’s endless monologues of increasingly more dangerous Altean wildlife, and even some Altean philosophy. He frowns. 

“Someone just thought a bad thought.” 

“Gee, I wonder why.” 

Ezor gives a toothy grin. In another universe, it could be endearing. In this one, he knows it isn't exactly a kind one.

She sobers up as quickly as she became giddy. “Bad thoughts are useless, you know?”

His response is interrupted by a stern voice. 

“Ezor, less chatting.”

“Boo, Acxa. You just don't want to hear me talk.” 

With a complete serious face, Acxa replies, “That's what I said.” 

Both generals are startled by Lance’s barely-not-really-concealed laugh. 

☆☆☆

It must be Narti’s turn to watch him. 

They've got him set up in a small, but clean dorm (cell?), with a bed and everything. If there was such a thing as captive reviews, Lance would give a tentative five out of five stars. So far, he hasn't been tortured, he's been given decent food, and a bed with blankets. _Blankets._ He might be thankful for being kidnapped-kidnapped, just a little. 

Sure beats the alternative. 

Narti stands next to the door. The room is tiny enough that Lance’s toes almost touch her knees when he lies down on the cot. He does everything in his power to keep that from ever happening. 

It's eerily quiet. Of course it is. Lance has never been comfortable with silence. 

“Ya know, if Lotor wants to do some real damage to Voltron, he's got the wrong guy.”

No response, not even a twitch. 

Lance continues anyway. 

“So it sucks for him. But, I guess it's a win for Team Voltron. If someone had to be abducted, it being me is convenient. Though I don't understand what you guys’ agenda is.” 

The always present cat glares at him, like it can't believe Lance dare talk in Narti’s presence. 

Lance might assume that Narti is deaf too, but then he notices that sometime when he wasn't looking, the general had leaned closer, the foot of the cot now closer. 

Is she listening? 

Either way, Lance gabs. About anything and everything he can think of, excluding any conclusive details about Team Voltron and it's Paladins. Which is hard. So he tells her family recipes, and about the one time when he was nine, he broke his leg falling out of a tree and managed to lose both front baby teeth. If nothing else, Narti can assume that Lance has a high tolerance to pain, but a horrible one to boredom. 

Soon his mouth gets dry, and his eyes heavy. All the adrenaline in his bloodstream has faded, leaving his ribs aching, broken fingers clumsy and swollen. The artificial lights dim, or perhaps it's his eyes playing tricks on him. He falls asleep halfway through the story of his fourth grade gay crisis. 

☆☆☆

Waking up isn't fun. Lance will never, ever again take healing pods for granted. Because, _crap_ , he hurts. His ribs twinge with every breath, and his fingers are completely useless, black and blue and red. Oh, and his ankle is now a cankle, skin so stretched it's shiny. 

Running is out, and so is pick-locking. As if that was ever an option. He no longer has his armor, nor bayard, which he purposely tried to leave at the moon his mission was on (a loss for him, but then again, not a gain for the Galra, and Lance is petty). The only thing Lance has is his charm, and even that's questionable. 

He's well and truly in a mean pickle. 

Looking on the bright side, if Prince Lotor hadn’t ordered his abduction, he'd be halfway to dead by now. If not begging for it. 

With that in mind he takes in his surroundings. He can't see anyone guarding him, but that doesn't mean he's alone. He hobbles to his door and finds that it’s locked (it figures). They locked him in while he slept. 

Lance supposes it's out of his hands now, and ignores the anxiety thrumming under his skin. He falls back asleep, and is rudely woken up by the door slamming open.

“Here's your slop, weakling.” 

Zethrid slams a tray onto the floor, which is filled to the brim with the same thing he had yesterday (he figures this will be the only meal of the day, but at least they aren't stingy). 

If he has to pick the general he's most afraid of, it'd be Zethrid. There’s Ezor, who conceals disdain under a cloak of cheerfulness. Narti, with her mind control and her creepy cat. Along with Acxa who is the most merciful and simultaneously dangerous one because if she lets loose her leash on any of them, he will be screwed. 

But Zethrid. Zethrid, he knows nothing about. Even if he observes her, he can only glimpse sadism and raw power. She's the wild card of the team. Lance can't glean any motive of hers, like he can guess for the others. 

He laughs nervously. “Thanks, General.” 

If the respectful title has any effect, Lance can't tell. So, she's not one for preening when it comes to title. 

Zethrid leaves as quietly as she arrived; loud as hell. The slamming of the door echoes long after she leaves, causing his ears to ring.

The silence afterwards is pretty suffocating, not to mention boring. He almost wishes he can jinx himself on that one, since the last time he bemoaned the absence of entertainment, he got snatched. But the only people he wants to snatch him from here is Team Voltron, containing faces he doesn't want to face (haha). He not only failed his mission, he fell into enemy hands. 

All he had to do was collected some rocks. That's it. But while he was on the ground, there was a distress signal sent to the Castleship. Since the planet was still showing up clear of Galra and other nasties, the stretched thin team let Lance go alone. 

It'd been a trap. Lance isn't sure how the Galra managed to be so stealthy all of a sudden, but they caught Lance off guard. Very off guard. 

He hopes that Coran got what he needed either way. And he also hopes that they're not wasting too much manpower looking for him. They don't have any to spare, even with the Blade of Marmora. 

They must really be hurting now that they're once again down a Paladin. But, with Shiro, perhaps not. Maybe this will be the natural order of things. 

☆☆☆

It is the fourth briefing since Lance has been missing. Fourth, in two days. Pidge has forgone her glasses, Hunk doesn't bother with his headband, and Shiro is without eyeliner. 

Keith looks just fine to Hunk. 

Hunk doesn't even try to quell the rising fury. Anything to cover up what's underneath. 

“I let myself into the left squadron’s radio signals. Nothing about a new prisoner. But we can only take it with face value, since we don't exactly know the Galran codes.” 

Pidge explains everything in more detail, but Hunk is barely there. There's mention of bringing in the Blade of Marmora, and infiltrating the right squadron.  
What bothers Hunk is the lack of mention of Lance’s name. Like it's a curse word to be avoided at all costs. Like he's already gone. 

A light bulb burns brightly behind his eyes. 

“Did they mention any guests?” Hunk asks, directing the question towards Pidge. 

“Uh. . .” She taps her keyboard with a vengeance. “. . .actually, yes. I guess. . ,” Pidge averts her eyes. “I guess I was too focused on the prison talk.” 

Allura sets her hands on Pidge’s shoulders, and Pidge doesn't even shy away. “We're all out of it, Pidge.” 

“It's just so like. . .” Pidge stops talking when her voice catches.

“We'll find him. I know we will,” Shiro says. His voice is normal, but his tone is flat. Detached. Hunk wouldn't be surprised if he's dissociating in real time.  
Pidge sniffs and looks back at her work, a few trails of tears glinting in the artificial light. 

“Of course we will,” She snaps. “Or else I wouldn't be doing all this work.” 

Hunk rolls his eye, playing his part. “Yes, Pidge,” he says, not even having to try to sound exasperated. He's almost disturbed by how little patience he has for the others and their versions of grief. And even more that he wasn't like this when Shiro was gone. 

But, this is Lance. No one completely knows Hunk, then entirely disregards his nervous complaints like Lance. Without Lance’s persistence, Hunk would have maybe five percent of his current life experiences. 

He misses his best friend.

Hunk glances at Keith. The Black Paladin sticks to the outskirts of the group, something he hasn't done since he grew into his new leadership. He seems to have forgone his usual outfit for his armor. Now that Hunk thinks about it, that's all he's had on for the last two day. He assumes it probably stinks by now. 

Something gives way a bit within Hunk. Maybe he's reading the room wrong, too blinded by guilt and loneliness. Maybe Keith is dealing with it alone, especially since he's now the head of Voltron. He and Lance have grown close since becoming Leader and Right Hand. Less real arguments, more old-couple-quarrels, and the fact Lance is the only one who can talk him down lately. 

Hunk might be seeing what he wants to see; he’d rather have this crumb of comfort and assume so. 

He leaves his spot beside Pidge, who is in the zone and not acknowledging him anyway. The others don't even give him a second glance (he might've been really moody lately, and has stormed off more than once, okay). 

“Keith.” 

The man in question startles. He visibly relaxes when he sees it's only Hunk. Which, depending on how this conversation goes, might be a miscalculation. 

“Hey buddy,” Keith greets, unfolding his crossed arms. 

“Heeey,” Hunk stalls. “Just seeing how you're holding up. Holding up, as in, how you're doing, since ya know, because of the. . .situation.” Quiznak, now _he's_ avoiding the mention of Lance. What is wrong with him? 

Keith is curt. “I'm fine.”

“You sure? You were pretty out there when Shiro was gone. Out there, as in--”

“I know what that means Hunk. I'm not as socially awkward as everyone makes me out to be.” 

Hunk laughs nervously. “Not because you're awkward, because you're. . .ya know.” Hunk gives a dramatic pause to let Keith know that a joke is about to come his way. “. . .Texan.”

Keith’s eyes widen, and a surprised laugh is springing from his throat. 

“I wish I never let that slip around Lance, because of course he made it his mission to make it a _thing._ Are we all forgetting Pidge is Italian and she's the Green Paladin?” 

“That also didn't slip past Lance’s radar.” 

Hunk and Keith both seem to realize that they both spoke of Lance in the past tense. Like they were reminiscing about an old loved one together. 

All at once Keith closes himself off. Hunk still resolves to push. 

“You don't seem. . .as affected as the others. It's been bugging me, and I think I can speak for everyone that we're all a little worried. I think we'd all rather have you, like, crying every second than not caring at all.” 

Okay. Maybe Hunk isn't exactly worried as much as he is ticked off, but he still has a little compassion under all the stress and anxiety that are making him coarse. 

Keith appears rightfully offended. “Of course I care! I just can't afford to fall apart again like everyone says I did with Shiro. I'm trying my best.” 

“Yeah, but like, we're all hurting Keith. Pulling away just causes more problems. And unneeded animosity. We'd rather you be sad along with us.” Keith glances at Hunk for a good few seconds before looking away. Hunk sighs.  
”Sorry I brought it up.” 

“Yeah, me too,” Keith says, sounding a little shaky.

As Keith is rushing off, Hunk only feels a little bad (okay, medium bad). Someone had to mention it, since Shiro seems to be doing nothing about it. It's not good for Keith to suppress his emotions. And perhaps Hunk has a few guilt fueled bad dreams that night, but he doesn't sleep any worse than he has been. 

The next morning, Keith is the first one awake and ready for brainstorming, so Hunk figures he made the right decision.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't edit this one as well as I did the other but I'm running on very little sleep. My chronic disease will not let me rest,,,,,
> 
> I mixed up the name of the cat, but I'm pretty sure I fixed it all. If I didn't I'm sorry but as I said, little sleep. 
> 
> Unbeta'ed.

After three days of the same routine, Lance can see he's not the only one who's itching to do _something._

His fingers are looking worse for the wear, but even though they’re basically three useless sausage-like appendages, they ache a little less. He can take occasional deep breaths before any shuttering pain strikes in his ribs. Lance’s biggest problem seems to be his stubborn cankle, which hasn't gone down any and still throbs with a vengeance. He fears he might need a splint, or that he might've fractured something. 

But, apparently, he's well enough to leave his small room/cell. 

When Ezor opens him cell door and exclaims, “Let’s play a game, Paladin,” Lance is beyond surprised. 

He eyes the lanky general. “Does this said game involve fighting to the death?” 

She hums, lifting a fingers to her chin in contemplation. “Unfortunately, no. Prince Lotor would disapprove. But, there are other things to bet besides your life.” A competitive sneer distorts her face, and Lance suppresses a flinch. “Like one's dignity.” 

“You know what, that sounds even worse. Count this guy out.” 

Cocking her hip, she frowns. “It's amusing when you assume you have a choice. Now, come on. Let's go play before Acxa decides against it!”

Lance heaves himself up. He walks with a limp more pronounced than he needs to, but makes sure not to exaggerate it too much, so any keen eye can't see anything false about it. 

By the time they get to what Lance now dubs the Throne Room, real heaves shake his chest and genuine sweat peppers along his skin. He hasn't been this exhausted in a while, and that says a lot.

He only perks up when he sees what is laid out. From the colors and shapes of the cards strewn across the table that wasn't there yesterday, Lance can only assume it is the alien version of Uno. Well, he hopes, anyway. 

“You got me worked up for nothing!” He accuses. It comes out breathy, his deprived lungs still calling the shots.

Ezor (he kids you not) only gives him an amused “heh” sound before taking her seat. She makes a show of crossing her legs primly, obviously satisfied with herself.

Acxa is shaking her head from next to the conniving general, while there is a free seat between Zethrid and Narti, which he assumes is meant for him. 

RIP Lance. He can vividly imagine Zethrid being dealt a bad hand, and in anger, crushing him between her biceps as she takes his. 

Said buff general hisses in annoyance. “Why am I roped into this sissy game?”

“Now, Zethrid, not everything is about brawn. We must use both our muscles and our minds.” Acxa rebuffs, deft fingers shuffling the thick stack of cards with precision. 

“That's why Zethrid isn't any good at this,” Ezor giggles, gleefully attempting to rile up the other general. 

Zethrid clenches her teeth,“I will crush you!” 

“Yeah, yeah. I'm _so_ scared.” 

Lance observes the four generals in shock. A phantom pain begins to smart within his chest; this back and forth between these supposedly evil Generals remind him so much of Team Voltron. The bantering, the teasing insults, and the friendly fights all happen much in the same way between all the Paladins. 

Now Lance can see why they would make him play. They want him to sympathize with them. Or at the very least see his found family within their ranks. It's jarring, and sneaky. And it's working. 

He shakes his head as he listens to the rules. They seem pretty convoluted to him, and from what he grasps from it is that a mix of Uno and poker. And it's all about strategy and analyzing your opponents.  
They play a round with just them, letting Lance observe and get the hang of it. When he is dealt his first hand, he is already in game mode. 

He glances at each of them as discreetly as he can.  
Lance first looks at Acxa. She comes off as tightly wound, frigid and moral. Well, as moral as a Galran Empire's General can get. But underneath he can see that she was impulsive to the core at one time. Now she second guesses her every move, never taking a big chance. 

Ezor’s way of playing is much like her fighting style. It comes off as random and carefree, but is a calculated recklessness. She wants to trick you into underestimating her, and she is patient when it comes to giving the killing blow, so to speak. She doesn't cut corners. Ezor enjoys overkill. 

Zethrid, is well, Zethrid. She comes down hard on her opponents, but doesn't think things through. She's all instinct, and that gets her in trouble. 

Narti is an enigma. Lance can't guess how she can see to play, nor how she's so good. She quickly disposes of Zethrid, who in turn almost breaks the table in half. She's the one to beat, the one to especially watch out for. Like a slippery eel, she can wiggle herself out of messy situations that seem impossible to find your way out of. 

And way too soon, Acxa and Ezor knock each other out of the game simultaneously. Ezor doesn't seem to mind, only stretching and giving Acxa an obnoxious grin. Acxa fumes. 

This leaves Lance and Narti. Oh man, he is _way_ too unqualified for this. He feels like this is straight out of a superhero movie, where a female mentor begins teaching her male subject through a montage of movement. And within a few months, as shown by a bad green screen, Male Lead beats Female Mentor, despite her having like, ten years of training on the guy. He doesn't want to be the any version of Male Lead, even if it only pertains to cards. 

Kova the cat hisses from her perch on Narti’s shoulder. Lance is so into it he hardly notices, keeping his entire focus on his deck of cards that are cradled in his good hand. His horrible, atrocious hand of cards. 

He wings it, throwing down whatever he can to counter Narti’s cards. Rapidly his cards dwindle into single digits, and he begins to sweat even more. Not a nervous one, really, but one that coats your skin when you have an adrenaline rush. And any competitive game or sport gives Lance this rush, even, apparently, in enemy territory. 

He's messed up. He knows it. But Lance figures you have to be wrong in the head to survive in this universe. 

Within a few doboshes, Lance knows he's lost. Narti reaps all the benefits of the winnings, and Lance swears on his grandmama’s grave that this sightless wonder manages to look smug. 

“Aw, _again?_ Narti always wins,” Ezor grouses.

Kova turns away and begins purring, passive aggressively licking her paws. Yeah, that's right, only a smug cat can pull off such arrogance. Not to mention enough gloating to kill a man. Lance has a feeling at least a little bit of Narti is reflected in those feline eyes. 

☆☆☆

Lance is already awake when Narti quietly opens the door. His eyes are still itchy with sleep, but he's aware enough to wonder why the Generals sent the blind, mute and possibly quietest Galra in existence to _wake_ him up. 

It's a little unsettling getting ready (read: hobbling) to leave in total silence, with only Lance’s muffled curses and grunts stir the stagnant air. After almost falling and stubbing his toe for the third time, he feels something slither against his good ankle. 

He startles, immediately looking to see what is now attached to his ankle. When he sees that it’s the tip of Narti’s tail holding him steady, he can hardly believe it. 

“Uh, thanks Narti.”

Narti’s head gives the slightest of motions. She just nodded at him! 

Just as the excitement reaches a crescendo, guilt butts in. He really should not be this excited to be acknowledged by an enemy General. But, Lance has long ago admitted to himself that he is desperate enough for validation that his mind doesn't know the difference. Nor does it care to differentiate. And it doesn't help that he can't bring himself to hate the Generals. That is like hating the color black because it is devoid of color.

He's seen pure evil. And the Generals aren't it. He can't speak for Prince Lotor, but the very fact that they have not laid a hand on him yet is telling.

Lance doesn't feel like he's in mortal danger. He's not exactly comfortable with these near strangers, nor happy about being unable to go home, to the Castleship. But he is probably in the safest place he can be, for himself and for Team Voltron. The Galran Empire must be hunting and searching for him by now, and if he were with the other Paladins, he'd be leading the enemy right to them. 

Prince Lotor and his Generals could have killed them all many times, but they refrained. That counts for something. 

With that and the Blade of Marmora in mind, Lance wonders if he and his team should be thinking more in shades of grays. If they could negotiate, even ally themselves with Prince Lotor (come on, he had Lance stolen from his own people), they could defeat Zarkon and his twisted wife. 

If he can figure out Prince Lotor’s motives, maybe he can use them in Team Voltron’s favor. Lance has never been a master manipulator, but no one looks at him twice in a fight; people underestimate him all the time, and now he will use that to his advantage. 

Everything the Generals have done seem to point to wanting Lance to let his guard down, to trust them. So that is what he's going to do. He can do this. He _can._ He'll fake it til he makes it. 

Unlike literally all the others, he's not blinded by deep seeded prejudices, righteous as they may be. He wasn't tortured for a year by the Galra, nor had his entire race decimated. His brother and father aren't captives. Lance can give these Generals a blank slate while he's here (like he's ever getting out) and then maybe. . .okay, Lance needs to think this through a little more. 

His thoughts are interrupted by a tap on his shoulders by one certain scaly tail. 

Lance makes a big deal of huffing while he stretches. “Yeah, yeah, I've been summoned. What games are we going to be playing today?” Has a day past since the last one? His perception of time is all wonky, more so than usual. 

Narti doesn't answer. Kova mrws at him somewhat menacingly, and he's surprised he didn't notice her before; he's so used to her being a permanent fixture on the General’s shoulder that she no longer registers unless she is no longer there. He needs to stay focused. 

Without even a gesture, Narti walks out of the open door. Lance assumes he is supposed to follow, staying a few strides behind her even though it hurts to be walking this fast. 

Lance is beginning to think that his cankle isn't going to get better by itself. Something isn't right, the skin keeps getting hotter, and the pain jostles him every step. He sincerely hopes that he doesn't have a nasty alien infection or something, because honestly, how embarrassing that would be? Cause of death of captive Lance McClain: infected ankle swollen to the size of a softball. 

He can kid himself, but he's beginning to worry. 

His wrist are unbound, have been the entire time he's been there, but all of a sudden he has this impulse to run. Anywhere, really, even just for a small change of scenery. He itches his wrist, fighting back the urge to hear what his uneven footfalls would sound like in this bizarre hybrid of a ship. 

Before he can do anything hasty, he comes to the Throne Room. This time there's no game set up, only the Generals in full uniform. Uneasiness prickles Lance’s forehead. 

Ezor perks up as soon as he appears from behind Narti. “Oh! You've made it!” She says, like he has any choice but to be here. 

From what he assumes is her station, Acxa sits with her hands steepled. She appears more pensive than usual. “Prince Lotor will be arriving soon. Supplies have to be gathered in the meantime. We've all agreed that we should not leave you here alone.” 

Zethrid gives a wide grin. Ezor rocks on her heels before saying, “Ready to go on an adventure?” in the most ominous tone.

“Oh, um, can I stay in the car?” 

None of the Generals seem to get the joke. It's whatever. He's used to it. 

☆☆☆

He's poked awake with a sharp jab. Hunk flails and falls off the tiny couch he is sleeping on. Or, at least, he _was._

“Wha?? Wh?” He mumbles. 

“Get up, Sleeping Beauty. We've found something,” Pidge says, her bony little fingers like weapons prodding his ribs. 

Hunk sees a blurry Allura a few feet behind Pidge as he rubs the sleep out of his eyes. 

“You humans are definitely not beautiful when unconscious,” Allura says, before opening her mouth and making faux snoring sounds. It's dramatic and exaggerated and out of place. 

He mumbles grumpily. “Well, everyone seems perky,” he says. When he realizes that's unusual true, he sits up straighter. “Did you find anything?!” 

“Yes, as I just said. Come on, might as well tell everyone at once,” Pidge says. Hunk sort of wants to argue that Allura obviously already knows, but he is both too tired and too hyped up to string together a sentence. 

He must be the last one alerted, because the rest of the team is already there. Coran stands rigidly, one toe tapping tirelessly, obviously anxious to hear the news. Shiro is in his usual outfit, suggesting he hasn't gone to bed yet. His face is blank, an expression that occurs often. Keith looks less put together, hair messy and uncombed. Hunk wishes Lance could see how much his absence is now affecting Keith's hygiene negatively. The greasy hair might actually flatter Lance at this point. 

Pidge comes in behind him, squeezing in between Hunk and Allura. She looks slightly manic, a gleam in her eyes that is only brought on when she quits sleeping to research and hack. Allura is tentatively positive by the small smile set on her lips. 

“Okay, let's cut to the chase. I've intercepted enough data and call logs that I feel like I can safely state that Lance is no longer in Galran hands.” 

They all gape at her. She sighs, providing further information. “I found record of a guest being mentioned almost the exact time Lance was taken. It sounds routine until they mention some. . .methods of restraint that is a little. . .let's just say bad.”

Shiro gets this far away look in his eyes. He must know exactly what Pidge is alluding to. 

“But before that could happen, there is some logs that suggests that their guest is no longer in their care, and they don't sound happy about it. Someone walked right in there and took Lance. I asked Kolivan if he recognized the program that disabled all the surveillance, and he confirmed it wasn't the Blade of Marmora.” The frenzied look returns to her face, only overshadowed by hope. “What if the rebels that have Matt took Lance?” 

Allura winces. “You didn't mention that earlier, Pidge.” 

Pidge snorts, going on to say, “Yeah, because I knew you wouldn't want me to tell everyone.” 

“Do you have evidence of this?” Hunk and Keith ask in unison. 

She slumps, exhaling. “No. It's all speculation. But who else would do that? Who could be so equipped to take on the Galra head on like that if not rebels?” 

He plays with his knuckles. Hunk doesn't want to shoot down Pidge’s theory, but he thinks she has too much pinned on it. There's no proof, and if this theory is correct, she'll find both Lance and her long lost brother. That's putting too many eggs in one basket, if you ask Hunk; just begging for crushing disappointment. 

“Are we any closer to finding him?” Keith inquires, leader voice in full swing.

The expression on her face is one of a person who's lost so much, and is hanging onto a few thin tethers. One tether is now fraying, threatening to disappear forever, and she's frantically reaching over the edge to grasp for it. She's on the precipice, looking down and realizing how far the fall is, reduced to one less thing to hold her. 

Hunk suspects he looks about the same, so he can't blame her. He only wants to hug her. So he does. She fights it at first, before finally letting herself succumb to the comforts of a soothing touch. 

“At least we know that he isn't being tortured by the Galra,” Shiro reassures. 

“Yeah. I just got my hopes up, huh?” 

Keith begins to pace after that, like a caged animal. The others stand close together, looking over Pidge’s shoulders to get a closer look at the data she managed to steal. When he stops, they all turn to look back at him.

“Are the Galra looking for this so called guest?” he asks, face open. He had the look of wonder that came from a great idea. Hunk held his breath in anticipation. 

When Pidge answers with a confused, “Yeah”, Keith looks like he won the lottery. 

“Then all we have to do is track the Galra while running our own investigation. If we luck out, they'll lead us right to him.” 

Allura sends Keith a surprised look while Pidge forces herself out of Hunk’s embrace to invade the Black Paladin’s personal space. A multitude of questions sound from her mouth at once, creating a garbled mess. Hunk just looks on like a proud father, happy to see these two brainstorming and, well, _bickering_ again. 

The common argument is that it's too reckless of a plan, since the amount of fleets searching for Lance is unknown. Surprisingly, for the first time since Shiro has been back, he doesn't argue with Keith’s decisions. 

All Keith has to do is convince Allura and Pidge. Hunk is on board with anything that might bring his best bro back. 

And so the debate begins. 

☆☆☆

The thing about Space malls, is that they all seem to look alike. The same diverse groups of aliens, the same strange smelling shops, and the same, horrible, terrible disguise is thrust upon him. 

Okay, this one is worse than Coran’s by far. Right now, he resembles an alien himself! And his skin still tingles for it. 

As they were about to leave, Ezor pushed him aside the group and cradled his face within her hands. He reared back in shock, while she just glared at him to stay still. As he did, his skin began to _burn,_ like the third degree kind, for a split second that felt like doboshes. Within that flash, his skin became chilled and felt different, textured almost. Ezor stepped back and looked at her work, before she deemed it worthy. 

“You make a good me,” Ezor had said. She looked smug, but her expression held something softer, reminiscent. The adrenaline from the burning pain erased any sense, as well as wayward aches as he felt woozy, and he’s slightly uncomfortable seeing any inch of vulnerable in the General. It's almost unnatural. 

When he gets a chance to get a look at himself it baffles him is that he doesn't look. . .Galra. He looks like a chameleon, basically, skin speckled with the colors surrounding him; purples from the dark lights, silver from the metal floors, and underneath it all at the very base, his natural skin tone. If she made him look like _her,_ than she must only be part Galra, like Keith. Come to think of it, none of the Generals look full Galra. 

That's a revelation. 

He's still surprised that these Galran Generals will stoop to low as to search within a Space Mall. It's not the same one Team Voltron went to (Lance is pretty there's wanted signs up for them at that one) but it's shops are eerily congruent. It brings with it thoughts of home, which doesn't make this situation any better. 

They arrive without any fanfare. It sort of makes sense, since Prince Lotor was banished to the Shadow Realm and all that, but Lance thinks that the way these women control their space is telling enough of their status. 

The crowd does part when they pass, which is convenient. Some shop owners even sent death glares their way, stance on guard. Shouldn't these guys be, like, heroes by now? But maybe not, since the last Space Mall was grossly loyal to Zarkon.

None of these keepers look twice at him; he thought maybe he might be able to send word if he somehow got to the same mall, even though that’d ruin his plans of negotiation, and he'd most likely be arrested on sight. They give him the same scornful huff like he's one of the Generals. 

Ezor keeps disappearing, falling back from the group before appearing ahead of them, and one time, right next to Lance. She sniggers at his yelp, and the next glance she's gone. Lance thinks she must be directing Acxa, who always seems to know where she is, even when she appears out of thin air.  
Logically, the only way that she could be equipped to do that is invisibility. Or, well, cloaking, since she has Lance in a _chameleon alien disguise, for quiznak's sake._ He quickly becomes cross-eyed trying to keep up with her location, and surmises that his hypothesis must be true; he's a sharpshooter for a reason: he's good at finding targets and keeping them in his sights. 

_Why didn't she just poof me invisible or something? Instead of changing my entire appearance,_ Lance wonders grumpily, but the glow of figuring out more about his captors overshadows the dismay. 

Lance doesn't know what the Generals gather at the Space Mall. He was too busy trying to track Ezor, and notices the change of scenery only when they stop. He curses himself because, _rookie move_ , and locks his eye on Acxa. And, ironically, that's right where Ezor stands. 

Ezor stands on her tiptoes, despite her height. She has her hands cupped in front of her, almost pulling off a solemn, even innocent. Like a child begging for another cookie. “Pleeeaaase?” 

“Fine. Just don't expect me to listen to that _unda._ ” He expects Acxa to scold her, but instead she softens, just a fraction. What it does to her face is monumental. Lance can see not just mercy hidden inside, but kindness too. He guesses even misguided people can be nice in their own way. 

Ezor whips around and looks at him, trotting over and grabbing his wrist. It's all he can do but to follow, as he and Ezor part from the group. With one more glance over his shoulder, he sees Acxa amicably debating the price for some particular deadly guns (what even are Space Malls) before Ezor pulls him into a dark room that smells like incense. 

The room itself is something you'd see in the movies when generically representing any psychic or medium. The dark colors, sparse furniture, and a table in the center of the room. What the movies can't show you is the feel of the atmosphere; is isn't particularly ominous, almost stagnant. Like it's neutral, that it might swing in either way depending on its occupants. 

The alien sitting at the table is a kind he's never seen. They have a really long neck, half of which is covered by stacked golden rings that jingle with every move. Their face resembles a serpent, circular face and scaled skin. Their eyes are warm, leading Lance to believe that they service anyone, no matter race nor allegiance.

“Hello,” they say, voice soft and wispy, barely there. 

“Allya!” 

They smile, teeth becoming fully visible, sharp and translucent, and freaky as crow. Lance manages not to flinch, since there's real affection in their eyes, no malice. Some of the nicest aliens he's met have been the scariest, though usual more on the furry side. 

“How can I be of help?” Allya brings their hands in front of them, threading their four digit hands elegantly. 

Ezor giggles, bubbly and light. She slants her hips to settle against Allya’s table, fingers walking across the fabric table cloth. 

Wait, is Ezor flirting with them? She brought him along with her to a booty call?!

“Your smile helps lots,” Ezor says, now fully leaning against the table, cloth bunching under her weight. 

They grin, teeth even more on display than before. They glance at Lance before deflating, realizing he's looking, and then quickly covers their smile with their hand. It makes him feel all around horrible. 

“Would you like a reading? This one will be free.” 

Ezor, pleased, sits in the opposite chair of Allya. “You know. . .you don't have to give me anything besides your _precious_ information.” 

Allya tries not to smile, which, in fact, was even more frightening. But they were trying. They sit up straighter before splaying their hands on the table.

“You know of my payment for the gathered information,” They say, voice no longer soft and timid, but steady and methodical. 

Ezor sits-stands at the small chair provided for her, balancing on her toes. She pretends to check her cuticles, and instead glances at Lance. 

“Beat it, Red. This is private.” 

“Okay, I'm going to inform you that my name doesn't correspond with my Lion, and you can always just ask for it. And I'm not going to step out for. . .whatever weird _stuff_ you wanna do, if you catch my drift.” 

“Your drift?” Allya asks, eyes narrowing. “Are you, perhaps, from Earth? Only that planet would have such a strange saying.” 

Ezor’s chair leans at a dangerous angle as she looks back at Lance, neck inclined toward him. “Earth? I've never heard of it.” 

“That's actually really comforting. You can keep not knowing. Get back to your weird flirt thing so we can skadaddle.”

Allya laughs, clear and high. “Definitely an Earthian.”  
The General slowly dissolves into a petulant child, angry at not knowing everything. “Allya, explain.” 

Allya must see the look in his eyes, for they are kind. They grasp Ezor’s hand in a flash, before saying. “My, your hands have gotten so soft. Have you been following my directions?” 

Ezor softens enough to relax, before giving Lance a gleeful glare that says, _this will not be the last of this talk,_ before saying, “Of course, I always do as you say.” 

“Except behave, I can see,” they say, sounding amused.

She hums, righting the chair. Allya grasps her hands, eyes going glassy and far away. Lance has a distinct feeling that as much as she fronts, Ezor isn't too excited to be here. Instead of just hedging the line between jester and cruel, the look in her eyes say she has at least one foot over the line. She fidgets, foot tapping against the chair. 

Allya gasps, bringing their hands close to their chest. Their features show shock for a spare few seconds before becoming relaxed and pleased. 

“It is better than last time,” they say. “I will give you the information I have without a guilt filled conscience.”

“Uh, what just happened?” 

Allya glances at Lance and blinks with clear eyelids.  
“I am afraid I cannot divulge information about another person's. Please understand.” Lance nods. “Now, it is time you for you to step out, as I need to talk with General Ezor in confidence.”

Lance sighs, “Yeah, okay, leave the vulnerable human to go fend for himself without a weapon. I shall limp my way out of here.” 

“Oh, don't be so dramatic. Acxa is probably waiting outside,” Ezor laughs as Lance does, in fact, limp through the translucent curtain. 

As he walks out and his eyes search for Acxa, he feels like a kid again, lost in the great big world of retail. When he was a snot nosed kid, he would hold onto his mother’s pants as she pushed the cart, and she'd laugh as he tripped over his own feet to keep up. Lance had a strange fear of being lost and never found, stolen by the invisible predator that seems to take all the kids they talked about on the news. He supposes it stemmed from the time he got lost in a super-sized Walmart when he was five, and wasn't found for an astounding ten minutes. 

His eyes finally drag over the fierce General, standing over by some shrubbery, looking totally inconspicuous despite looking like she can kill a man with her glare. He hobbles over, reaching her side before she finally acknowledges him. 

“Red Paladin,” She greets briskly. 

“Ezor and now you? The name’s Lance, not a primary color!” 

Acxa looks at him like he's plucking out every one of her eyelashes one by one as she speaks, “Fine. Lance.” 

Lance laughs, feeling strangely at home. The reason pops into his head and launches from his lips before he can stop it. “You remind me of someone. Like, grumpy looking and the whole ‘don't talk to me’ thing. That, there, that's the face!” 

Acxa looks like she'd rather be literally anywhere else than here, by the shrubs, next to him. 

“But, but, you're actually probably nice and just awkward, or maybe you just wanna, I dunno, stay professional. Which is kinda ironic since you're like, the top General of an exiled Prince.” 

Her brows dip, lips straightening into a tight line. “Do not speak foul of Prince Lotor.” 

“Woah, woah, I'm not. I've never met the guy during any of his attempts to kill me, so I can't say anything about him one way or another.” 

She raises a prim eyebrow at him, but despite her poker face, Lance likes to think he can see some amusement hidden under layers of irritation. Acxa crosses her arms, giving him a distinctly appraising look. 

“What,” he finally asks. 

“You're less scared than I anticipated.”

Lance snorts unattractively. “Once you're a part of Voltron long enough, nothing surprises you much. And, I mean, you guys are essentially treating me as one of your own, and you haven't harmed me. So, I count my blessings while I see them.” 

“You are extremely adaptive,” Acxa says, tone edging on praise. Lance attempts to keep his dignity by not preening, but the validation is too strong. He feels a smile stretch his face. 

He looks down, avoiding eye contact. “Thanks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemme know what y'all think! I won't be able to answer any comments you might leave until tomorrow night probably, since I have a doctor's appointment because I've been so sick. Thank you for reading <3
> 
> Tumblr: eccentrick-stardust


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so surprised by the amount of comments I got, on chapter two especially. I thought for sure after the first part y'all would lose interest in my silly plot. 100 kudos, I'm so happy. Thank you so much :') 
> 
> Notice the new tag. This chapter has some implied suicidal ideation. Tread carefully, I don't want to trigger anyone! 
> 
> Also, since season 4 is out, this will not follow canon. I would have to fix too many things and I just want to continue plowing ahead. 
> 
>  Originally posted 10-10-17
> 
>  
> 
> **IMPORTANT: NO SEASON 4 SPOILERS IN THE COMMENTS PLEASE. I'M ONLY 3 EPISODES IN AND I KNOW OTHERS ARE BEHIND AS WELL. THANK YOU!**

Hunk notices when Keith quickly deteriorates. 

It starts as the same old exhaustion, seemingly eternally etched into the plains of Keith's face. The dark circles become even darker, appearing as black and blue, like he's been repeatedly hit in the face. And maybe he has, since when not in briefing, Keith is fighting bots left and right. Now that Lance is gone, not even Shiro can get him to stop. 

Keith no longer responses to Pidge’s friendly taunts, instead choosing to walk away. He also doesn't even try any of Hunk’s new creations. 

And, once again, Hunk seems to be the one not too preoccupied with his own mourning to notice, making it his responsibility. Again. This better not become a habit, because Hunk can barely deal with _his_ anxiety, let alone relieve others’. 

Keith comes to him before he can plan a way to ambush and trap him. The Black Paladin hates talking about his emotions like a cat hates water, so it really comes as a surprise when Keith does the cornering.

“Do you. . .have time to talk?” 

Hunk takes a moment to gape, and then hurriedly nods. He feels like a mother bird proud of her hatchling taking the risk of flight, and jumping out of the nest with no guarantee of success. 

“Well, yeah, I don't have any place to be until the next meeting.” 

“Good. Good. I just thought. . .nevermind, it's stupid.” 

“Keith, I already know something is bothering you, so unless you want me to unleash Pidge on you. . .you can tell me.” 

Keith swallows, looking down at his fidgeting hands. “I just. I know you're Lance’s best friend. I just want to know if you think he's okay, if he can make it. I'm not good at connecting the dots when it comes to people.”

Hunk pauses, thinking. 

“You mean, do I think Lance has what it takes to endure whatever is thrown at him?”

Keith nods, obviously relieved that he doesn't have to explain. 

“I do. Look at how well he navigated being a Paladin. And how well he gets along with the Blade of Marmora. I think Lance can take whatever is thrown at him, and still think he's not giving enough.”

The Black Paladin sighs at the last sentence, clasping his hands tightly in front of him. 

“That's what I'm worried about.” 

\--

They settle into a surprisingly comfortable silence afterwards. Acxa is still forever alert, preparing for a fight, but there's something different in her stance. She seems less intimidating, more welcoming towards him, but Lance can never truly trust his judgement when it comes to how others think of him. He either convinces himself they love him, or they hate him. 

Take Keith for example, even Allura. 

But he feels safe enough to ask her a question. 

“Where’s Zethrid and Narti?” 

Acxa’s eyes dart towards him, before going back to their mile long stare towards Allya’s booth.

“Doing their assignments,” is all she elaborates. She doesn't trust him. It makes sense. Just not to Lance Logic, where he somehow finds a way to feel hurt by it. 

There's a flash of light in the corner of his eye. Before he can turn to see what it is, Acxa has him tackled to the ground, adding a new set of bruises to his already weary body. Her show of strength is admirable, but not when it's being used to hold him down. 

“Holy crow, that should not have been attractive,” he blurts out. Wriggling from the General’s grip, he catches the breath that was knocked out of him. “But can you please explain what just happened.” 

“We've been seen, is what just happened. The slippery little eels somehow got passed Narti’s security.”

Lance almost lets himself hope that whoever that was is connected to Team Voltron, but that dream is crushed when a lanky little alien that is the definition of weasly stands up from behind the parallel bushes, brandishing their camera like a weapon. 

“Space paparazzi?!” He yells in disbelief. But as soon as he thinks about it, it makes sense. Prince Lotor is, well, a Prince, meaning that he is important. Important equals media attention, just like the royal family or president back home. Lance just assumed the Galra were more like a dictatorship similar to North Korea, where the media was strictly controlled.

Acxa sighs as she stands, reaching out her hand to help Lance. He makes the mistake to grip it with his injured hand, drawing the General’s attention to the mangled digits. She looks slightly appalled. 

“Why did you not say anything?”

Lance itches his head with his opposite hand. “Well, I am a hostage, or whatever you wanna call me. I expected torture, so this isn't too bad.” 

She looks away, and Lance can see the mask shielding her kindness. Acxa knows she has no right to wield it. 

“Let’s hurry Ezor along,” Acxa says, “She's been flirting in there quite enough.” 

Incense parts like a second curtain as they do just that. Ezor is already standing, looking none too happy to see them. 

“I'm coming, I'm coming,” She chides, her usual attitude present. “We just need to make one more payment.” 

Allya seems mighty uncomfortable under Acxa’s glare. Lance doesn't blame them. 

“And what is this payment?”

Ezor points at Lance before bringing her pointed nails to her temple. “Allya wants a look inside Lance’s mind. No scrambling required.”

“You knew my name the entire time?!”

Ezor inspects her nails as she nods, though Lance can tell that she's trying not to laugh. “Of course, I know everything.” 

Acxa groans. Ezor clicks her tongue and closes in on the lead General, resting her head on Acxa’s shoulder. Ezor notices Lance’s gaping, snaps her fingers, and points to Allya’s booth. 

“Holy crow, you're more of a nag than Hunk. I'm going.” 

Ezor smiles at him sugar sweetly. Lance just snorts and rolls his eyes. 

Allya is, of course, waiting for him. He decides not to think what this will turn out to be.

“Hello Earthian,” they say, serene as can be.

“Hello, Whatever-Planet-You-Come-From.” 

Allya ignores the sass, or perhaps they don't understand they were just sassed. Either way, they have Lance sit down.

Immediately he knows why Ezor sat on her heels, as his long legs hit the top of the table as soon as he tucks his over the chair. He winces and curses the General; she could have totally warned him, as they are of the long-legged brethren. But no, she just had to let his poor knees suffer. 

_She reminds me way too much of Pidge. Like a more colorful, evil, conniving Pidge._

“Let us begin,” Allya sighs, looking fatigued. 

They reach behind them, bringing out three small cylinders of something between their swift claws. He jumps when the things move within the clear glass. 

Allya pulls off the stopper, releasing whatever lives inside. Upon a closer look, they remind Lance of tiny bats, the kind that have divided noses and puppy-like faces. 

“Is that humane, keeping them in there?!” 

The alien just snaps their fingers, and the little things stop. 

“They are not living. So, yes, it is humane. I use mechanical ones, unlike most of my kind.” Allya arranges them in a straight line in front of Lance. “They each do certain things. We shall only use one today, as I do not want to overwhelm you.” 

They place the middle one in his palm. When they snap their fingers again, the critter is alive once again. It opens its little maw and bites down on the meat of his hand, incisors sucking crimson liquid from his veins. 

“Ow,” he mumbles, trying not to look too closely at where the cute thing is legit _sucking his blood._ “You could've warned me, jeez.” 

“It would not be conclusive.”

Lance glares at them, “What wouldn't be conclusive?!” 

“Ah, it's already changing.” 

And it is. Lance breaks eye contact with Allya to look down at his palm, where the thing is now no longer withdrawing blood. It pops out of his skin, leaving only a twinge of pain to show it was ever there. It goes from metal gray to deep indigo, becoming completely still when it's job is done. 

Allya hums, plucks it from his hand, and deposits the blood it holds into a ceramic looking bowl. And that is when Lance realizes his blood is what changed its color. Because his _blood_ is indigo. 

“Uncommon, but not unique,” they amend, and Lance wants to say, _same,_ but he refrains. 

“Just please tell me what the quiznak is going on.” 

“I wanted to know what went on within a Paladin of Voltron’s psyche. What just took your blood is a _truth vespertilio,_ which is an animal on my planet that is used to see what is within. The one I used specifically a type that roots out an individual’s insecurities--” 

“Oh _great,_ ” Lance says. “Just what I wanted, to air my dirty laundry out to some weird voodoo alien. What do you even need to know these things for?” 

They grin, and this time they don't try to hide it from view. It is a triumphant, sneaky smile, and Lance can now see why they work with the likes of Ezor. Their fangs glint in the light. 

“Because it is what I do. I am a gatherer of secrets, and I am of moral standing to be able to know when it is necessary to use my knowledge.” 

Lance facepalms. “So you blackmail people for the greater good.” 

“Exactly.” 

He sighs, “Well, I guess I should at least know what you might one day use on me.” 

Allya gazes down at the bowl, eyes unseeing. They bring the edge to their reptile lips, sipping the blue-purple blood. They swallow convulsively, like it burns on the way down, staring for what seems like forever, before looking up, somewhat less jolly. 

“You are insecure, as I already guessed. You see yourself as less than useful, and a burden. A burden you have thought about nipping out at the bud. But you are too much of a coward to do it, in your eyes.” They reach over and grab his hand before continuing. 

“You are ashamed that you are glad to be with enemy Generals. Because, at least, you do not hold the others back. It is your redemption. You think if you find something useful and manage to escape, you can tell the others. But now. . .you no longer want to do that, since you see your friends and comrades within their ranks.” 

“You can stop now,” he pleads. “I know all of this already. You proved your point.” 

They clear their throat, relaxing against their chair like a puppet with its strings cut. They sigh. “It is tiring, being you.” 

“Tell me about it.” 

\-- 

They all stare at the picture displayed on the wide screen. Pidge looks absolutely bloodthirsty, her find like the scent of the first cut. Keith keeps examining the photo, reverting his eyes, before glancing back, appearing uncomfortable. Allura, Coran and Shiro are whispering to each other, faces grim. 

Hunk is the only one not too worried. At least, not deathly.

“Are we sure it's actually him,” Shiro asks. 

Allura says, “I suppose our other plan is now on hold.”

Pidge’s face is illuminated by the translated bold, red headline: **Prince Lotor’s New General?**

The head General is standing alert, next to a colorful alien that is similar to another of Lotor’s crew. Except, when you look closely, you can see clear blue human eyes, along with a deep brown skin in between patches of other colors. And, really, the posture of the person is especially telling. 

It looks like Lance. In fact, Hunk is willing to bet anything that is it him. A bro knows their bro when they see them. 

“I hope it isn't Lance, the poor fella,” Coran speaks up. He no longer seems jolly as he looks up at the projected image. “If Prince Lotor is anything like his father, and if his generals are anything like Lotor if Lotor is anything like his father, than I worry. They'll chew up the lad and sneeze him out.” 

“That isn't the saying, Coran,” Pidge complains.

“Pidge, is there any way to analyze and see if it's him?” Keith asks. Like it's totally normal for one of the Paladins to end up in a Galran gossip magazine. Hunk can just imagine Keith’s internal screaming. 

Hunk instead answers with, “We still have his selfies in the Blue Lion’s database. We can use that and overlap it with the. . .current photo, and we can have a good idea if it's Lance.” 

“Self. . .ies?” Allura says, confused. 

“Yeah.” Pidge fidgets with her glasses. “Yeah, that could work.” 

“Let's get to it then.”

\--

“That took longer than I expected.” 

“Ezor, quiet.” 

Lance distances himself from the group, hanging on the outskirts with Narti. She walks close to him, keeping enough distance that they don't touch when Lance limps, but enough that he can feel her presence. Kova doesn't even bother to growl at him this time. 

He likes to imagine that if Narti could speak, she'd ask if he's okay. 

What happened in that booth has Lance shaken. He hasn't been fully confronted by those emotions and worries for a while, buried so deeply within his subconscious that his dreams were the only truths he told himself. He is the king of bravado. Or maybe no one has the time to bother trying to sooth his petty, self-centered emotions. It wouldn't be the first time. 

The thing is, he shouldn't be like this. He had a nice childhood, gotten into his dream school. His parents were proud of him, for crow’s sake. He knows, logically, he isn't really lacking in abilities. Lance may be a simple jack-of-all-trades, but the talents he does have stand out in the real world, away from a dime a dozen prodigies living within the Garrison’s barracks. 

So it makes his lack of self esteem that more insulting. It is self induced. A few misguided comments from a few mean people still bounce around the confines of his mind, sticking to every corner, every crevice, rooting themselves into his thoughts. Should he feel the things he feels? No, as simple as that. 

Every negative thought only makes him feel guilty. 

“Look alive,” Zethrid grunts. “With a face like that, Prince Lotor will eat you alive.” 

Lance shrugs, a little dazed from being abruptly pulled from his thoughts. “I wouldn't taste good, not enough meat.” 

Zethrid looks like she's actually contemplating killing him, roasting his body, and eating him. “We could always fatten you up.” 

“Zethrid, I swear,” Acxa scolds, half resigned. Zethrid just playfully bares her teeth, shrugging. Like a casual, _oops, I thought of eating a captive again, my bad._

Despite the threat, Lance doesn't really feel the zing of fear in his veins. Obviously their precious Prince wants him alive. Otherwise, he would have been Zethrid-kibble by now. 

“Well, if Prince Lotor decides to kill you, you won't feel it. He's good, even if it's a waste not to savor the kill,” Zethrid says, sounding strangely respectful.  
When that comforts Lance, he knows he needs some serious therapy. 

☆☆☆

Acxa leads him to his room after Ezor took her weird alien mojo magic off him, leaving him the same old Lance. Her walk is well practiced and symmetrical. Along with Lance’s limping gait, their footsteps creates an almost melodic rhythm. She stops when they get to the door, turning to him. 

“Get rest. His majesty will be here soon.” She looks frown briefly. “I apologize for the. . .disruption today. The person was dealt with.” 

“Well, I mean, you took the metaphorical bullet for me today. You can't control the press.” Lance pauses. “Wait, by taken care of, I assume you don't mean given free health care.” 

Acxa gives him a secret little smile. “No. Your observation skills are par with Prince Lotor.” 

“Did you just make a joke?!” 

“Perhaps. No one would believe you, either way.” 

He stifles hysterical laughter, because, he just had an entire conversation with the General of Generals. Albeit short, it counts for something. Lance made the stone cold right hand of Lotor tell a _joke._

“Now _that_ is evil.” 

☆☆☆

Lance wakes up with Ezor standing over him. 

He startles, falls out of bed, and bangs his injured ankle on the way down. Grumbling enough curses to make Hunk faint, Lance glares up from the mess of blankets. Ezor looks amused, the smugness only deterred by a glance at his swollen cankle. 

“Ugh,” he groans, “Yes. Fragile Paladin alert. You and Acxa act like you guys don't know what injuries are.” 

Ezor shrugs, crossing her arms. Deceptively delicate fingers with long nails tap against her forearm. A nervous tick. 

“Because we don't. Once you get hurt a few times, it rolls off like water.” 

“Anyway!” Ezor dismisses ardently. “Prince Lotor has arrived and is waiting for your presence!” 

“You seem excited. Is Prince Lotor that good of a leader?” 

Ezor takes on a rather brisk stance, a casual mockery of Acxa’s noble stature. She looks down at him, sprawled on the hard metal floor, chin tilted sharply and eyes blazing, dangerous as a smoking gun. Lance is just waiting for her to cackle behind a prim palm, like some deranged cheerleader. 

The tone of her voice is complex when she replies, “Of course. The Prince saved us all. He saved you. Just wait and you'll see. His majesty is someone worth following.”

Ezor’s demeanor changes like a switch once she says all she needs to, once again thoughtlessly calculated. She helps him up, mindful of his useless fingers, before assessing him. 

“Okay. We need to clean you up a bit.” 

That is how Lance discovers the wonders of Galran showers and drying system, feeling both uncomfortable and luxurious. He mourns his smooth skin. Ezor hands him a suit similar to hers, revealing it to be a unisex catastrophe. All Ezor does is turn around to give him privacy and listen to him struggle to put the thing on. He almost falls face first at least a dozen times, wiggling and holding his breath and cursing at whatever heathen being created this. He has it to his chest when Ezor turns around and presses a button on the neck, causing the fabric to loosen, allowing Lance to pull it up completely. 

“You knew that the entire time and just let me struggle!” 

“Yup,” she says childishly. 

“Has anyone told you that you're sadist?” 

She repeats, “Yup,” sounding way to happy.

“Oh, and by the way, can I get like a wrap to put on my ankle?” 

“What's wrong with it?” Ezor asks, even as she hands him stretchy cloth similar to an Ace Bandage. He sits and carefully binds the delicate skin. She just enjoy being difficult. 

Lance just rolls his eyes (something he's gotten good at since living in close counters with Pidge and Keith) and bumps his shoulder against Ezor’s. Well, he reaches her ribs, but same difference. 

Ezor leans into it like a starved cat, desperately rubbing for affection. It gets Lance thinking. He's seen how many times the Generals goes out of her way to touch, to be touched, and how much she seems to enjoy even simple brushes of contact. She walks him to where they must be meeting with Prince Lotor, and for science, he makes sure to lean on her, like he needs the support to walk.

The whole way there, she does not once tease him. Even when he almost trips over his own legs, ankle a hindrance in his new suit. 

They stop before stepping into the Throne room.

“Just be yourself, and you won't have any problems with Prince Lotor. He's not as scary as he likes to lead you to believe.”

“That's the first time anyone has told me that before diplomatic meetings.”

Ezor shakes her head and huffs, before planting her hands in between his shoulders and pushing him through the door. 

“Hello, Paladin,” comes a prim voice. 

There seems to be some sort of feast set on a makeshift table, all sort of weird folds steaming. Any other time, Lance would be salivating, but right now he's too focused on Prince Lotor. 

Because, Holy Crow on a Cracker. 

Lance has known for awhile he isn't entire straight, nor entirely gay. So he should not be having an identity crisis as he tries really hard not to check out the Prince of Galra. But he's just so. . .beautiful. And his _hair._ Is it even gay if the dude is an alien? 

“Uh, greetings?” Ugh, why did that come off as a question?! 

Ezor leads him to the table, seating him across the Prince. This means he's forced to look into Lotor’s eyes, as the Prince intently looks at him, his full expression hidden behind steepled hands. 

Sounding slightly amused, Lotor answers, “Greetings.” 

He speaks again when Lance fails to answer. “Do you know why you're here?” 

“Well, sort of? I mean, I was in a Galra ship --well I'm still technically in a Galra ship but you know what I mean-- and like Mission Impossible your Generals break me out. Which I'm still confused about, honestly.” He pauses for a breath. “You know, I fully anticipated you to look older, like much older. And maybe more evil.” 

Lotor glances at Acxa, then Ezor. He looks decidedly pleased. “You have left quite an impression on my Generals. That is not something to be taken lightly. They seem to be correct, you do not have a single thread of deception.” 

Lance scoffs. “I’m totally deceptive! Ezor, just ask me how my day was!” 

“How was your day, Lance?” 

“Horrifically, horrendously, horribly bad.” 

“You just listed synonyms,” Zethrid says. 

He totally ignores her, because really, Zethrid isn't the master of deception either. 

“Well. You'll never know whether I'm lying.” 

“Of course, Lance,” Acxa amends, just like she does with Ezor. 

Prince Lotor hums, drawing everyone’s attention back to him. He gestures to them, “I now see why you have made such a splash with my Generals.”

Ezor nods. “I've never seen Narti so amused.” 

Lance glances at the eternally silent General, and finds that she looks the same as always. 

“I can assume that our accommodations have sufficed.” 

“Yeah, man, the best place I've even been forced to stay in.” 

Lotor smiles, showing off pearly pointy fangs. “I apologize for the long wait. But I have an offer I would like to make to Voltron.” 

All humor is wiped from Lance’s face as he realizes, wow, he'd just been joking around with Galran Generals, in front of the Galran Prince. He tries to quell the pinpricks of sweat beginning to needle themselves into his skin. 

This is serious business, and Lance is way out his league here. He longs for Allura’s commanding atmosphere, her dazzling smile allowing Lance to disappear into the background where he can't mess anything up. 

“I wish to call a sort of truce. I believe that your team and mine have similar interests in this war, and I would like to combine our forces.” 

There is a long, quiet pause. Everyone is still, even Ezor, who's no longer examining her cuticles, but looking straight at Lance with a surprisingly hopeful expression. 

“Well, I'm confused. I mean, you're the _Prince._ Literally the Prince. So I don't understand how we have similar interests.” 

Lotor raises a brow, looking contemplative. “You see, I may be the Prince, but I do not condone what my father has done. The useless killing that has been going on since his reign is atrocious.” 

“And you want us to. . .be an ally?” 

“Precisely.” 

“But you said ‘truce’.” 

“Ah, you caught that.”

“So does that mean that you guys will go back to kicking Voltron tush once we defeat Zarkon?”

The Prince’s pristine smile cracks a bit at the mention of his father’s name. 

“We would negotiate our terms.” 

“Uh-huh. I just have a hard time believing that you'd _need_ to team up with us, since as I said, you're kicking our butts.” 

“As you should. We don't _need_ Voltron, but we could certainly use it.” 

“That does not comfort me at all. Why go through all the trouble and treason for something you don't need?” 

“You see. . .I cannot function as an Emperor, not the way I need to, on my own. It will be too conspicuous, and we have many hungry eyes watching us.” 

Lance pauses, considering. “Than why not contact the Blade of Marmora.” 

Lotor gives a scornful look, hidden beneath the veneer of openness. 

“I guess that's a no.” 

The Prince unthreads his fingers, splaying them out in a submissive gesture. Like the wings of a hawk before it swoops down to snatch its prey.

“Perhaps. . .we are willing to work with them, if your team agrees as well. Voltron has done more in a year than the Blade has done in millennia.” 

Lance stiffens. The gesture meant to calm Lance now appears to be mocking him. 

“The Blade of Marmora are brave and have made many sacrifices. I don't see you doing everything they have, dude.” 

Lotor’s eyes narrow, lips drawn into a slightly displeased manner before softening. Honestly, Lance is surprised to still be breathing; he just told off the Galran Prince who could just as well lean over the table and slit his throat from ear to ear. It's been known to happen. His heart races within its cage, a bird begging to be set free through his throat.

“It has not worked. The only way for it to change is with the leadership.” 

“So that's what you want. You want to be able to take the throne from your dad.” Lance isn't sure why he feels disappointment leech into his voice. 

“Your team cannot expect for an entire Empire to crumble with no leadership? You are all soldiers, foreign ones at that. And from what I have seen, Voltron can barely hold it together, let alone lead a wayward people.” 

Lance sighs, shoulders heavy with the weight of what's happening. He is essentially negotiating the for the future for the universe, his life, the lives of his friends and teammates. The allies that Voltron has managed to free from the shackles of tyranny. He can understand how Atlas must have felt, let alone Princess Allura who deals with the weight everyday, practically eating it for breakfast.

He's not sure he can do this. 

But somehow, he is. “You make a few decent points,” Lance admits grudgingly. “But I can't really say yes for sure either way right now. I'm not sure why you're telling me all of this, because like, all negotiations should be between you and Princess Allura. I'm just a Paladin, not even a good one at that.” 

Lotor studies him, every fidget and awkward glance to the Generals. Lance is a spectacle to be studied and dissected. He appears to make a decision as he stands, looking even more intimidating from the new angle. 

Prince Lotor looks down at him, but not in a way that makes him feel inferior. 

“We shall speak terms with this Princess.” 

When all the Generals stand, Lance is left confused. “Wait, what's happening now?” 

“We are sending you back to your team,” Lotor explains, matching his gait with Lance’s. 

“Was this the plan the entire time?! And no one bothered to mention it?” 

Lotor doesn't answer, even as the quiet closes in as they leave the Generals back in the Throne Room. Together they make their way through the maze-like gut of the ship, Lotor weaving him seamlessly through the narrow halls. 

They stop at a transport pod, already all set up and ready to go, the interior lights glowing the menacing purple of the Galra. Lance jolts at as a soft brush of a hand against his startles him. 

The Prince nestles something into Lance’s palm, round and flat and warm from what has to be his body heat. His consciousness is suspended, having trouble believing that he might actually be going back to his space home. 

He doesn't have much time to examine it before Lotor leans in. The wisps of words barely make it past his ears before the phrase is etching itself into his brain, worming its way into an uninhabited crevice. 

Lance is in the pod, coordinates heading to the Castleship, but he doesn't feel safe, nor relieved. 

He knows the precarious balance of his family will never be the same again. 

“We shall see each other again soon,” Lotor says in farewell.

☆☆☆

Hunk rubs tired eyes, strained from the long hours staring at the one picture that can potentially reveal where his best friend might be. The edges of his vision are starting to blur, but he just squints and leans closer to the screen.

“Hunk,” Pidge groans, “Give it a rest, will ya? Staring at that picture isn't going to materialize Lance.” 

She stops what she's doing, freezing. “Woah. I just told someone else to quit working.” 

“I'm proud of you.” Hunk sits up from his hunched over position, cracking his back the way that always freaks Lance out. 

Pidge closes her laptop with finality. “You should be. I sounded like Lance.” 

Hunk doesn't answer, and Pidge does her part to silently understand by not commenting on it like she usually would. 

Since finding the strange picture, the team has been working tirelessly analyzing every bit of it that they can. When it turns out to be worth nothing but some reassurance of Lance’s safety, the spark of ambition is fluttering out. Coran made Shiro rest as he looked like death, Allura is currently trying to find any clues from Blue, and Keith is kicking the simulations butt. 

That leaves Pidge and Hunk to linger, glancing at the enlarged photo every few minutes. Despite her attitude, Hunk knows for certain that Pidge is pretty worried herself. 

**“Paladins! Someone or something is in the Castleship! I am unsure how they got in! I am on my way down, but whomever is closer to the training deck please go there at once!”**

A flip is switched. Pidge and Hunk stand, quickly shucking their electronic equipment. They get into their gear in record time and race to the training deck. 

“Oh man, oh man, I hope Keith is alright!” Hunk yells as they run full speed. 

Hunk slides to a halt, and almost cries in relief. Okay, he totally cries. 

“LANCE! BUDDY! OH QUIZNAK, I'M GONNA START CRYING,” Hunk sobs. 

“You already are,” Lance replies. Lance said that!  
Lance is alive! 

Hunk isn't sure who runs at who, but they are all smashed together like a leaning dog pile, before tumbling down. And he knows he isn't the only one wailing, though his are definitely the loudest. 

“See, Pidge! I totally just materialized Lance out of thin air.”

“Whatever,” Pidge grumbles, but it is a happy one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all for reading! It'll take some time because I will attempt to write it all out before I post anything. So I hope you guys will understand if it's a while before the next installment. I've found I have less unfinished/abandoned WIPs if I finish the entire thing before hand. So y'all might want to subscribe to me personally. 
> 
> Remember, no spoilers! Love you guys!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if y'all enjoyed it down below. I might have this installment done, but I still need motivation for the next fic.
> 
> Main tumblr: eccentrick-stardust
> 
> Personal side-blog: lo-tor
> 
> **EDIT: LOOKING FOR BETA FOR THE SEQUEL. CONTACT ME ON MY PERSONAL BLOG IF INTEREST, THANK YOU!**


End file.
